


Sapsquatch

by Melo_Mapo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Laura Hale, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Laura kicks ass, M/M, Maple Season, The only steam's from the evaporator, not literally though, sugar shack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-10-21 06:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melo_Mapo/pseuds/Melo_Mapo
Summary: Stiles likes college in Vermont just fine, and his his job at the sugar shack too, especially when it comes with the owner Derek Hale's grumpy, yet delectable presence.





	1. Chapter 1

Derek heard the car coming from miles away. The sugar bush was a mile off the highway, up a small road that passed a couple of houses before hitting the forest proper, and none of the locals drove all the way up to the sugar shack anyway.

And since the maple season had barely started, and early with that thanks to a week of unseasonably warm weather, there was little likelihood that anyone would be coming to buy maple syrup, especially with his road sign not even out to point his way yet.

So when a squeaky old jeep parked itself between the Camaro and Big Yellow, Derek was already waiting outside the sugar shack, arms crossed. A puny boy got out and bound energetically for the sugar shack, his tight pants, white sneakers, and elegant wool coat showing quite clearly that he had not given much thought to where exactly he was heading. Derek sighed and inwardly cursed Laura and her good ideas, like putting part-time job offers on local colleges’ websites. The boy looked barely old enough to be a freshman, and Derek didn’t bother with pleasantries:

“Are you here for the job?”

The boy recoiled a bit, halting his advance for a second, before stepping past Derek and inside the sugar shack.

“Good day to you too, good sir,“ he said with faux cheerfulness.

Derek ignored the sarcastic tone and asked again, arms still crossed:

“Are you here for the job? If not, get out. I don’t have maple syrup for sale yet.”

The young man turned on himself slowly, taking in the barn and its hay loft, the evaporator and its quiet bubbling, the piles of firewood, the bright yellow tank for the sap and, beyond the open barn doors at the other end, the sugar bush and its labyrinth of lines.

The visitor’s 360 ended with his gaze resting on Derek, considering.

“Yes, I’m here for the job,” he eventually answered.

Derek snorted, and the boy’s eyes narrowed:

“What, you think I can’t do it?!”

Derek went for a painfully obvious once-over. While the boy was about his height, maybe even a tad taller, Derek had at least 20 pounds on him. In turn, the college kid crossed his arm.

“I’ll have you know I can lift my own weight.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. He wanted to call the boy’s bluff, but his heartbeat had been steady all along, so he eventually relented:

“Come back tomorrow at 11am. The pay is $15/hour.”

The boy nodded and looked ready to ask a bunch of questions, so Derek added:

“I’ll have paperwork for you to fill tomorrow. Now get out, I have work to do.”


	2. Chapter 2

Derek did not expect the kid to come back the following day, and was already dreading a conversation with Laura about how he needed help at the shack, and human company, and can’t just keep driving potential employees away with his gruff behavior – though she’d have a less polite way to put it – so he felt a mix of weariness and relief when the unmistakable squeaky sound of the kid’s blue jeep made itself heard at 10:55am. The boy was on time too. Huh.

Derek hurried out of his flat, which took up half the storage loft, and put on his work boots, zipped up his jacket, and jumped down the 10 feet to the main space of the barn, foregoing the ladder. Just in time too, as the boy nearly caught him in the act. Derek was mildly pleased to notice that he was wearing far more sensible clothes than the day before, though the beanie and flannel jacket combination made him look more like one of those coffee shop baristas – hipsters, he recalled, is the term Laura used - than a lumberjack.

“Here’s your paperwork,” Derek said in lieu of greetings, grabbing a manila folder he had put aside last night, and the boy took it, fleeting annoyance passing on his face, but lips saying:

“Thank you, Mister Hale.”

Derek cringed, and corrected:

“Derek,” before sliding the large barn door open.

“Stiles,” the boy said.

“Huh?”

“Stiles,” he repeated.

“What’s a stiles?”

The boy rolled his eyes.

“That’s my name, Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.”

Derek frowned, unsettled by the odd name for some reason, and headed out, the boy in tow. He took in the cool air, the melting snow on the ground. The afternoon would be warm enough for the sap to flow, and he needed to start boiling what he had already accumulated.

“We need more firewood. There are stacks there, and there. Bring them down to the barn.”

He pointed to the haphazardly piled logs that the neighbor who owns the bit of forest further up the hill had dumped at the border of their property. She didn’t need the wood, and had been happy to trade it for maple syrup back in November, but Derek regretted not bribing the lumberjacks that did the work on her property to bring the wood to the sugar shack directly rather than just leaving it at the edge of the sugar bush, because taking the logs down the hill while avoiding the snaking maple lines made for tiring, if boring work. Derek glanced at the college kid, who was studying the hill, and thought it was going to be a good test of the boy’s character. Or a good way to get rid of him fast.

Without another word, Derek went back in. He has a fire to start and some boiling to do.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s past 4pm and Derek had forgotten all about lunch and his new employee when the boy in question walked back in. At first, Derek had been hyper aware of his presence on his territory, and instinctively followed the sounds he made as he crunched the snow trudging up and down the hill. After getting the boiling started however, he had gone to use the electric saw on some of the bigger trunks and logs he had, and the earmuffs had protected, and cut, his attuned hearing from anything else. So it was with a jolt of surprise that he was suddenly presented with a tired-looking kid, his hair sticking up every each way. Derek turned off the saw and took off the earmuffs.

“Most of the wood’s down the hill, Mister Ha… er, Derek. I’ve got class at 5pm, and I should probably shower before. Is it ok if I go now?”

Derek took in the kid a bit more. The exercise must have warmed him, cause he had dropped the flannel jacket, and the sweat-stained grey t-shirt he wore underneath revealed a toned body Derek hadn’t been expecting. Maybe he could indeed lift his weight.

“Sure,” Derek answered, inhaling cautiously to avoid overloading his sense of smell with Stiles’ pungent, sweaty scent. “Tomorrow at 11am?”

“I’ve got class in the morning,” said the young man, “but I can be here from noon to 6pm.”

Derek nodded. He had long days of boiling ahead of him anyway, with how nice the weather was. Abandoning the saw, he went in to check the fire under the evaporator, followed by Stiles. Some of the syrup was ready to pour in jugs, and Derek busied himself with grabbing the necessary equipment. Noticing that Stiles was staring, Derek grumbled:

“Don’t you have a shower to get to?”

Snapping out of his dazed contemplation, the boy grimaced, grabbed his jacket and backpack from a corner of the barn, and left with a hurried: “See you tomorrow!”

Derek sighed, and stoked the fire before going out to check on the progress with the woodpile. He was expecting maybe 60% of it to have been lugged down, and was surprised to see that, true to Stiles’ word, there were only a few heavier logs left. Wondering how the boy had managed to feat, which even a werewolf would have had trouble with, Derek went to examine the neat pile of logs and found the luge he used to carry equipment up the hill innocently resting against it. The flattened out snow making a clear path down the hill confirmed that, cleverly, the boy had used the luge to get logs down the hill faster. Honestly, Derek would have thrown them from the top of the hill to the bottom, but obviously that wasn’t an option for a regular human, and the sap lines would have made it an exercise in precision.

After a good stretch of his arms, Derek headed up the hill to take care of the leftover logs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I had mixed up some chapters when posting - please go back to the start and the story will make much more sense!

It has been a few days now that Stiles started coming over. After the third day, Derek had pushed himself to say a few more words and had asked for the kid’s class schedule and phone number, to figure out logistics, and had informed him that he’d pay him every other week.

On day 4, Derek had Stiles help him with the evaporator and the bottling of the syrup, and had found that the young man’s constant chatter didn’t bother him that much. Stiles was thankfully not expecting him to contribute more than monosyllabic answers to the conversation, and discussed a variety of subjects in a rambling but astonishingly coherent way that made Derek think of some kind of unedited podcast.

On day 5, prompted by Stiles obvious curiosity, though he had abstained from asking questions so far, Derek found himself explaining basics of maple syrup making. His explanations sounded short and clipped even to his own ears, but he was secretly pleased when, on day 6, Stiles questions showed that he had researched the process overnight as they worked on making leaf-shaped candies.

On day 7, Derek enjoyed the peace and quiet as he worked alone, Stiles having declared that he needed Sundays off for homework and relaxation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be published with a chapter/week rhythm. Don't hesitate to subscribe to get updates! 
> 
> This is un-betaed, don't hesitate to point out issues & typos. (I'm looking for a beta reader if anybody would like to help!)


	5. Chapter 5

It was 8:30am on a Monday, and Derek was already up and hard at work, chopping the big logs brought down by Stiles. They had been drying by the barn for a week, and Derek was planning on having Stiles stack them inside once in smaller pieces. He was planning on getting as much of it as possible done by 11am, not willing to have to slow down and tame down his strength for the human’s sake.

So when a now familiar squeaky car noise reached Derek’s ears, two and a half hours early, he hastily carried the stump he had just lifted to the chopping station, and dropped it there just in time for the car to appear up the road. Stiles was just about to come in through the barn’s side door when Derek realized he wouldn’t be able to explain how he had moved that stump alone. But there was no time now to carry it back, and when Stiles walked in, Derek was busy pretending he had not heard him come and was still chopping wood.

“Morning!” the young man called out.

“Stiles?” Derek feigned surprise. “Aren’t you scheduled for 11am?”

“I was, but I’ve been awake since 6am, and I figured you wouldn’t mind me clocking in a couple more hours, what with that big order that came in for maple candy.”

A local bakery had indeed ordered 400 maple-leaf shaped sweets for a client’s wedding favors.

Derek made a show of leaning on his axe and swiping imaginary sweat from his brow – he hadn’t worked up to that yet, though he was shirtless in prevision of the heat of the physical activity.

“I guess it can’t hurt, no. Do you remember the process?”

Stiles nodded, and Derek noticed he was not-so-subtly checking him out. Not sure what to make of it, the wolf took a deep breath in when the young man passed by him on his way to the corner of the barn that hosted a small kitchen setup. There it was, clear as day despite the overlapping scent of maple sap: arousal, green and vivid like pine trees in the spring. Derek idly wondered if Stiles had a boyfriend, then willed the thought away. It was, after all, none of his business.


	6. Chapter 6

After a couple of hours carefully splitting logs, sweating more from the strain of hiding his real strength than from the effort itself, Derek decided to check on Stiles, who had been dutifully stoking the fire in the evaporator while making maple candy.

“Tired of chopping?”

“I needed a break,” hedged Derek, telling a roundabout truth by habit.

Stiles smiled:

“I’m about done with this batch of candy. Let me replace you for a short while.”

Derek smirked before he could help himself, and Stiles gave him a frankly affronted look.

“Still not convinced I’m stronger than I look?”

Derek shrugged.

“Hey, I took all of those logs down the hill!”

“Yeah, by way of luge.”

Stiles sputtered, and started a rant about how cleverness was obviously a strength, before cutting himself when he realized he was arguing his own physical weakness.

“Well then, sit back and observe!” the young man finally exclaimed before decidedly heading for the stack of wood that still needed chopping. He then took off and neatly folded the flannel shirt he was wearing – the man seemed to have and endless collection of them – and revealed a white tank top under. He then donned on gloves, flexing his fingers a couple of times and tested the grip they provided on the axe. With little else ceremony, Stiles then grabbed a log, set it on the stump they used as a chopping block, and got to work. Though he knew Stiles wasn’t has puny as the ample flannel shirts made it look like, it was a surprise to Derek to see him effortlessly swing the axe and split the wood. His position and practiced movement told of a task done many times before, and Derek wondered at Stiles’ personal life story, for the kid talked a lot but rarely about himself.

After chopping a couple pieces, Stiles paused:

“Impressed yet?” he asked.

“Very,” answered Derek, before adding: “you’ve done this before.”

Stiles shrugged:

“I built a lot of fires in high school.”

Derek wondered if maybe Stiles had been working as a summer camp counselor, but didn’t pry further as the young man had started splitting wood again with a renewed ardor that spoke of not wanting to be asked more about the subject. Derek busied himself with the evaporator and with stacking the already made logs, working in a companionable silence broken only by the satisfying thump of wood splitting.

Derek was making a new batch of maple candy when Stiles was suddenly right here, having sneaked up on Derek while the loud standup mixer was on.

“Oh, sorry, I just need water,” said the young man, having caught Derek’s flinch.

The werewolf moved back a bit, his sense of smell overwhelmed as a sweaty Stiles reached a toned arm in front of Derek to reach an empty glass on the shelf, before standing impossibly close as he rinsed the glass poured himself some water from the tap. After gulping it down – and why was Derek suddenly fascinated by the movement of Stiles’ Adam apple? – the man stepped to the side and put the glass down on the counter.

“Dude, it’s hard to believe it’s barely above freezing temperature out there!”

Stiles gestured to the open barn door and, beyond, to the slowly melting snow.

“Nothing like good ol’ wood chopping to warm a guy up,” added the young man while grabbing the bottom hem of his tank top to wipe the sweat off his face.

When Derek’s eyes moved up from the tantalizing happy trail there, they met Stiles’ considering gaze. Derek resisted the urge to guiltily break eye contact, and kept his face neutral, but a small smile still quirked Stiles’ lips and he said, in a low voice:

“You blush beautifully, Derek.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 was so tiny, I gave you two for one this week!


	7. Chapter 7

While Stiles never mentioned the Blushing Incident, Derek noticed a definite change in attitude in the next few days. First, the man seemed to wear as little as possible as often as possible, even taking to working shirtless when working by the evaporator and stoking its fire – something Derek deemed quite unnecessary, and frankly a little reckless as embers tended to spark from the fire when you shoved new logs in. Second, he made more of an effort to coax Derek into conversations, and while it satisfied some of Derek’s curiosity about the college student’s life – he was a literature major who specialized in folklore – it meant talking about himself more as well. Stiles also took every opportunity he could to make innuendos, some delightfully subtle, prone to make Derek blush belatedly as he replayed their conversations once alone at night; and some so ridiculous or hackneyed Derek could not help but roll his eyes, which amused Stiles to no end.

Third, the man had grown more tactile, not hesitating to invade Derek’s space when they worked side by side in the kitchen or bottling maple syrup, casually leaning on him to reach shelves, tapping Derek’s shoulder to get his attention, or even in one memorable occasion, quickly hugging the werewolf on his way out.

Last but not least, Stiles had taken to looking at Derek overtly, and the werewolf had to grow accustomed to feeling his nape prickle with that feeling of being observed, only to raise his eyes and meet Stiles’, who would unhurriedly go back to his own task. Derek knew what he looked liked: it had never been hard to attract one-night-stands; the circumstances however were different, and the way Stiles looked at him was more wistful than objectifying, like he was considering Derek as a person, not just as a body. The idea of Stiles looking for a relationship rather than a quick fuck, as his courtship suggested, made Derek’s old, self-deprecating demons resurface. Every time Derek felt Stiles’ gaze, he wanted to hide and preen at the same time, and the warring feelings made for long and tiring days.


	8. Chapter 8

After a couple weeks of that, Derek tossed in his bed, unable to find sleep. He honestly didn’t know what to do. He had not been interested in anyone for a long time. After Paige, and after Kate, he had limited himself to harmless dalliances, and after a while had tired of even that, sex without intimacy feeling maybe better than his own hand but requiring a lot more effort, especially now that he lived on a sugar bush in the middle of nowhere, Vermont, rather than back in NYC.

He had, back in those days, enjoyed the company of men as well as that of women, so his attraction to Stiles wasn’t entirely a surprise, but was not expected either. He usually went for petite women and slender men whom he could take care of, and got off of the power imbalance, but what attracted him in Stiles was not his first-impression lankiness, but the brawn he had displayed when splitting wood, the calm and precision of his gestures, the subtle muscle mass that talked of a strength borne of strenuous, regular effort, rather than trips to the gym.

Truth be told, the more Derek thought about Stiles, the more he wanted to roll over and be the one to submit, which was an instinct he had only listened to once, to disastrous ends. An instinct he had thought he would never feel again. An instinct that terrified him, and kept him from sleep.

Laura was of little help.

During one of her regular checkups, she had asked about the new employee and, unable to lie to his Alpha, Derek had told her the whole conundrum. His sister had patiently listened, dropping all teasing when she had understood the situation was of importance to Derek, but in the end she had had herself conflicting advice to give: while she was thrilled at the possibility of Derek dating again, she would have preferred to know more about the man and worried that an undergrad student might be a bit immature to take on Derek’s baggage.

“And that’s without even thinking about the furry problem,” she had concluded, and Derek had exited the conversation with even more contradicting thoughts.


	9. Chapter 9

“Hey, Derek, give me a hand?”

The werewolf finished bottling the jug of syrup he was holding and headed outside through the side door. Stiles had just arrived, and as Derek approached he realized the jeep’s back was piled high with logs and pallets.

“Where’d you find that?” asked Derek.

Stiles snorted:

“My friend’s frat is doing some spring cleaning.”

Derek shrugged. They had been running low on firewood for the evaporator, and while he was about to stop tapping the trees, the tank was still three quarters full of sap to boil off.

As they started to carry the disparate pieces of wood inside, Stiles said:

“Oh, didn’t you mention maple wine at some point?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, a friend of mine is bartending at this joint in town and… I might have mentioned something… She’s interested in carrying it if you’re willing to brew it.”

“Which ‘joint’?”

“The Witcher.”

Derek must have made a face, because Stiles frowned:

“What?” he said, defensive.

Derek could not tell him that it was a famous hangout spot for the local supernatural crowd. He avoided it at all cost himself, as Laura had befriended the bartenders, a couple of young omega werewolves. While Boyd was a fine person to hang out with, Erica was by far too nosy, and constantly tried to hook him up with other customers.

“Tell Erica I’ll brew whatever she wants, but that I’m not setting foot in her bar.”

Stiles smiled at that, and teased:

“What, afraid she’ll manage to convince you to have a drink and loosen up for once?”

Derek sent a death glare at Stiles, but the young man must have grown desensitized since he only laughed, grabbed a log, and added it to the two already in Derek’s arms. The werewolf made a show of staggering a bit at the weight and quickly walked inside the barn, followed by Stiles who was carrying a lighter but voluminous pallet.

“Aren’t you a bit young to hang out at the bar anyway?” asked Derek.

The Witcher had live music on Wednesdays, the only night it let underaged kids in, but still, Derek was surprised Stiles knew Erica well enough to discuss his side job at the sugar shack. Stiles dropped his pallet near the stack of wood, took the top log off Derek’s arms, and arranged it on the stack. He was frowning when he said:

“How old do you think I am, Derek?”

Derek pondered a second. Stiles had mentioned having moved to Vermont a couple of years back, and the classes he talked about seemed to indicate him being a sophomore.

“19?” ventured Derek.

Stiles turned to him, looking affronted.

“I’m 21, turning 22 in a couple months.”

Derek dropped the last log on top of the pile.

“But, you’re a sophomore.”

“I am.”

There was a silence. Stiles sighed:

“I got held down a year when I was 8, and then again when I was in high school,” he finally explained.

“Oh.”

There was something uncomfortable and defensive in the way Stiles was standing, arms crossed, and Derek decided not to push. He was back at the car, Stiles following to help for the last of the wood, when Stiles spoke again:

“My mom died when I was in 3rd grade, and I repeated that year.”

Derek turned to him, unsure how to respond. He hated it when people said they were sorry upon learning about his family, but there wasn’t much else one could say.

“I never graduated high school,” he found himself blurting instead.

Stiles looked surprised for a second, then gestured to the sugar shack ahead of them:

“You seem to be doing well.”

Derek chuckled:

“You realize I live in the hay loft right?”

“What? It’s not storage?”

They walked back inside the sugar shack, and Derek pointed to the left half of the mezzanine.

“Well, some of the space is.”

“Dude, can I see?”

Derek was a bit taken aback, but Stiles was genuinely interested, craning his neck to get a glimpse at the loft, so Derek just waved Stiles along and climbed the shallow, ladder-like stairs to the landing, like an indoor porch. There, Derek left his muddy boots and upper layers before getting inside. He opened the door on the left, and hoped his place wasn’t too messy. His home looked like any other small cabin but for the fact that it was 10 feet off the ground. Stiles followed suite, taking off his muddy sneakers before coming inside. He took in the space, a studio with a bed & dresser at one end, a kitchen with a high counter at the other, and a living-room space in between, composed of a couch, a couple armchairs, bookshelves along the wall, and a nice TV. Towards the back, where the bed was, an open door led to a bathroom. A currently unused wood burning stove provided heat in the winter, when the evaporator wasn’t active yet.

“This is wicked cool.”

There was genuine wonder in Stiles eyes as he walked about the space, his lanky frame sneaking behind the couch to peruse the bookshelf. Derek had the sudden fright that Stiles would see the old tomes scavenged from the Hale Vault, with their evocative supernatural titles, and think him a weirdo, before remembering the books were in Latin, French, or Old English, and unlikely to draw the boy’s attention.

Derek was busying himself in the kitchen, getting water to boil for tea after having confirmed Stiles would like some, when he heard a gasp.

The werewolf turned slowly, and beheld, as feared, Stiles holding one of the most outlandish tomes from the Hale library, a book in Latin on good practices for pack management and rearing werewolf cubs. Derek was desperately looking for something to say when Stiles cried out:

“You’ve been holding out on me, Derek! This is so cool – I didn’t know you had an interest!”

Derek shrugged, realizing all of a sudden that Stiles’ folklore studies likely included studying ancient languages, and edged, with all the nonchalance he could muster:

“My mother had the interest. I inherited her library.”

“Would you… Would you let me borrow it?”

Derek grasped for the most likely excuse to refuse, and blurted:

“They, huh, they’re kinda fragile…”

Stiles’ face fell, and Derek hurriedly added:

“But you can read them here, if you want.”

“Oh… Only if it doesn’t bother you…”

So bright was the joy on Stiles’ face, that Derek had no heart to say no, though his wolf felt a bit unsettled by the idea of having a non-packmate in his den.

“This… It’s fine,” he eventually said, sounding gruff even to his own ears.


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles must have felt some of Derek’s reluctance, for the first few times he imposed on the werewolf’s space he was careful to contain his presence to half the couch and a bit of the low table, sitting down in silence for hours at a time, the pages of his pick of the day the only rustle troubling the quiet. He read Latin and Old English with an ease Derek had thought only his mother capable of.

Two weeks had past by the time Stiles unearthed from Derek’s library _A Brief Treatise on the Ailments and Cures of the Lycans,_ a volume in Ancient Greek that Derek had spent many days translating and studying with his Aunt Anna when the Hale pack had acquired it. The book’s 700 or so pages disproved its name thoroughly, accompanying convoluted disease descriptions with gruesome illustrations, followed by a compilation of known remedies, the fragmental recipes more often than not contradicting each other, when they even had ingredients in common. That proved the end of Stiles self-improved silence. After a long day checking on the taps, they had both gratefully stepped inside the warm cabin, and Stiles had at first enthusiastically thrown himself on the couch, opening his computer and straight away before carefully, religiously opening _A Brief Treatise_ on the first page. Things had gone downhill from there.

First had come the muttering, and the frantic keyboard typing. Then disgusted exclamations starting punctuating the muttering when, paging through the book, Stiles encountered particularly horrible illustrations. Finally, the man sighed so deep and long Derek was surprised he didn’t feel the wind of it all the way to his armchair.

Resolutely closing the book he had been reading, Derek lifted his gaze to the couch, taking in Stiles’ slumped shape over its length, and asked:

“Everything ok?”

Stiles sighed again, and answered:

“This is incomprehensible. Absolutely, thoroughly, decidedly unintelligible.”

Derek smiled:

“That bad, huh.”

Stiles nodded, rubbing his eyes.

“The declensions are so irregular, it might as well be another language altogether.”

“Almost – it’s a very rare form of archaic Greek.”

Stiles perked up, his reclined body suddenly slipping to a sitting position.

“You’re familiar with this book?”

“It’s one of the crown jewels of my mother’s collection. I helped with the translation.”

“Rad! You could help me? Wait, there’s a translation?”

Derek grimaced.

“Not anymore.”

Stiles frowned.

“How come?” he asked.

Derek took a deep breath, and said:

“The copies and translations burned with our home, the originals survived because they were kept elsewhere.”

“Man, that sucks. No digital copies?”

“The cloud wasn’t a thing yet, we barely had a computer, which also burned.”

Stiles shook his head:

“That’s too bad. I hope everybody was ok, at least?”

Derek took another deep breath. That was the kind of moments his therapist had him work towards.

“My sister and I were the only survivors.”

Stiles looked at him, his eyes gone big with surprise, and Derek was glad he wasn’t close enough to smell the pity on him. After a second of silence, Stiles cleared his throat and said:

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Stiles shook his head, explaining:

“Sorry for bringing it up.”

Derek breathed, in and out, forced his hands to unclench, and said:

“At any rate, I might be able to help with the book.”

“I’d appreciate that. My Greek isn’t stellar to begin with, and this is way beyond my skills.”

Derek got up:

“I’ll make us more tea, then show me what you have so far.”

“You’re the best!”

Stiles’ smile as he handed Derek his mug was honest and soft, and his scent held no pity, just sadness.

 

They worked together for hours, and Derek found he remembered more than he thought, sometimes teasing entire paragraphs apart with ease, the grammatical patterns feeling logical, the irregularities familiar.

Stiles’ proximity as they shared the couch was new and exhilarating. Derek was in turn hyperaware of the man’s body, or so focused he would forget about it until a smile, or a brush of skin on skin, would jolt him back into awareness, his stomach swooping. He was glad for Stiles’ humanity, and his inability to tell just how sitting on the couch together affected the werewolf.

He was grateful too for Stiles’ single-mindedness: absorbed in the translation work, the man had forgotten all about flirting and making innuendos, which Derek wasn’t sure he could take without acting on at this point.

“Eeeeew… Do we really want to translate that?”

Stiles had just turned ahead a few pages as Derek was working through fragments of a recipe, not sure what unit was an ingredient measured in – the recipe only mentioned using three of it, but he was pretty sure it was a liquid and…

“Oh! This is actually a really interesting chapter. This is about how the bite can take wrong, and what can happen.”

Stiles frowned and looked past the gory bite marks, to the next page, where a scaly creature was gazing out of the page.

“Fuck.”

Derek looked up from his notes again, taking in Stiles’ distressed scent and accelerated heartbeat.

“Are you ok?”

Stiles hummed, focused on scanning the text, quickly turning to the “cures” part of the chapter, looking for something.

“True love,” he finally muttered, “of fucking course.”

Derek frowned, he did vaguely recall something about love being one way to bring empty souls back to a regular werewolf shift.

“I’m lost. Are you familiar with this… legend?”

Stiles snorted, and unexpectedly sat back in the couch, propping his right foot on the low table and rolling his pant leg, revealing a neat, if impressive, scar going from his knee down the side of his calf, and stopping at his ankle bone.

“You could say that. Fucking Jackson turned kanima when I was a sophomore. Lydia, who I crushed on then, saved him. He left me a souvenir, though, the jerk.”

Derek’s first reaction was to feel like the biggest idiot on Earth. Stiles knew about the supernatural? He had never said anything… But he also never found it weird that Derek owned a bunch of very factually written books on werewolves. Did he know Derek’s a werewolf?

“Dude, you’re ok? It doesn’t hurt anymore, you know.”

Stiles covered his leg up and dropped his foot back to the ground, and looked over at Derek, concerned.

“Do you… Do you know what I am?” eventually stuttered Derek.

Stiles chuckled:

“An hermit who makes maple syrup?”

“Stiles…”

The man rolled his eye:

“If you mean your tendency to become furry on occasions, yes, I know. You are a very unsubtle werewolf.”

“What?”

Stiles smiled, his scent bright and amused, and then pointed:

“See, right there! When you use your wolfy sense of smell, your nose does this little wiggle thing, it’s so obvious.”

Derek stopped breathing altogether.

Stiles slumped in the couch and started enumerating, counting on his fingers, his gaze focused upward:

“You routinely move heavy things around that no human could handle, you’re never out of breath regardless of the physical activity you’re doing, you go out when it’s 5 degrees without gloves or a scarf, you have tea or coffee ready when I arrive ‘cause you heard my car coming up the road…”

At this point, Derek was already hiding his face in his hands, but he still heard the glee in Stiles voice when he finished:

“…oh, and you started scent marking me like, two weeks ago.”

Derek whined. There was no other way to describe it, even to himself. He could feel the mortification burning high on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’ll stop…”

Stiles cleared his throat:

“I… I like it, actually.”

The hesitation in the man’s voice convinced Derek to drop his hand, though he could still feel the heat reddening his face. Stiles glanced at him before focusing his gaze elsewhere, muttering:

“I really, really like it.”

The swooping was back full force, but Derek wasn’t sure Stiles knew how meaningful the behavior, conscious or not, was, so he made himself ask:

“Do you know what it means, for a werewolf to scent-mark a non-packmate?”

It was Stiles’ turn to be embarrassed, though he hid it with a deep breath and bravely looked at Derek:

“It means you’d like me to join your pack.”

Derek’s turn to be brave then:

“It means I want you to be mine.”

Stiles’ heartbeat suddenly became so irregular, rabbit-quick and all over the place, that Derek couldn’t help looking at Stiles’ chest. The man brushed his gaze aside with a movement of his arm over his own heart, bringing Derek’s attention back to his face.

“Do you? Because you didn’t even realize you were doing it.”

There was skepticism aplenty in the man’s voice, and before Derek could muster an answer, Stiles added:

“Are you sure it’s not just because I’m there, and available?”

Derek scoffed:

“I do interact with other people you know.”

“When was the last time you had a date, or went out to meet people?”

“Four months ago,” answered Derek, triumphal, omitting to precise that the date had been arranged by Erica, and had ended in a disappointing one-night stand. Stiles didn’t look convinced, regardless, and Derek took his hand. Bizarrely, Stiles’ hesitation cemented Derek’s resolve:

“I haven’t seriously dated in a long time, you’re right, but I’d like to see where this goes.”

Stiles’ heart was still beating too fast, and Derek let go of him entirely, moving back to sit properly on the couch, gaze neutrally pointed at the screen. The next words hurt, but he had worked hard to be there, to be sane, and he owed himself and the money spent on multiple therapists at least that, so he said:

“If you don’t want to, it’s ok too. I… uh… don’t have the best track record, and my PTSD might flare if we date or become intimate.”

After a strangled chuckle, Stiles noted:

“Derek, what the fuck, who says ‘become intimidate’ with a straight face?”

“Somebody who went to a lot of psychotherapy.”

“You… Oh. That wasn’t a joke.”

“When I was a teenager, I met and fell in love with an older woman. Turns out she was a hunter, and she used me to kill most of my family.”

“Oh. God. Really not joking.”

A moment passed, and Derek wondered if he had blown his chances, but then he felt a hand on his arm, and while his initial instinct was to pull back, he didn’t have to, for the hand left his arm as quick as it had landed. Derek turned to Stiles once more, and the man looked at him, sadness in his scent, but no pity on his face, and he asked:

“Can I hug you?”

Derek nodded, slowly, not sure he was in the best mindset for physical touch, but not daring to push Stiles away either. Slowly, eyes attentive, Stiles wrapped himself around Derek, climbing in his lap and settling there until Derek’s face was smooched in Stiles’ chest, and Stiles hooked his chin on top of Derek’s head. His hold was loose, and Derek felt comfortable returning it, resting his arms around Stiles. They were silent for a moment, but the further Derek relaxed, the twitchier Stiles got, until he blurted:

“We can come up with a safe word. Not just for sex stuff, but for relationship stuff too. Like, any time I approach trigger waters, you can yell ‘banana’ and I’ll leave it alone, or we can discuss it, or you can make me a list ahead of time, or…”

“Stiles. Breathe.”

The man did as told, but his anxiety was stinking up the air, exacerbating Derek’s, and the werewolf gently extracted himself from the embrace.

“I’m going to check on the evaporator,” Derek said, and he fled the room.

 

Derek was feeling calmer, the repetitive task of sticking labels on bottles of maple syrup lulling, when Stiles eventually joined him downstairs.

“Hey Derek, I gotta leave… Study group. But, er, can we talk more next time?”

The man’s heart was back to its usual pattern, but his smell and jitters told Derek he was nervous.

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

And because he was a bit of a jerk, and curious too, Derek leaned back on the counter, crossing his legs at the ankle, and tacked on the smile that he’d been told made people want to get in his pants (though Erica had been more graphic in her description). The reaction was immediate, Stiles’ scent growing bright with arousal as he rolled his eyes and walked closer.

“You’re a bit of an asshole Derek, you know that?”

Derek bit back on his smile and tilted his head down, looking up through his lashes as Stiles stopped close enough that their feet touched.

“You’re killing me,” groaned Stiles, fake-annoyed, and fond in a way that made Derek’s heart thud hard in his chest. Stiles gently kicked Derek’s feet with one of his scuffed trainers. The werewolf was still looking at their feet when Stiles added:

“See you later, big guy,” and dove in for a quick press of dry lips on Derek’s cheek before running out the barn, jumping in his Jeep, and tearing out of the parking lot.

Derek went back to his labeling with a giddy feeling and heat on his face.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay - and thank you for the comments, they keep me going in this unending winter we suffer here in Upstate New-York... Though the story is finally aligned with reality has maple season has kicked in!

“So… Are you guys going steady then?”

“Laura…”

“Use your words, Der-Bear.”

“I… I don’t know. We agreed to talk more. I like him, he knows I’m a werewolf…”

“You told him?!”

“He guessed. He knows about the supernatural. He’s got a gnarly scar from a kanima.”

“Kanima? Derek, when is he coming to the sugar shack next?”

Derek walked to the old school paper calendar hanging in the kitchen area, and said:

“He’s off tomorrow, and then on at 10am on Thursday.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Laura? Laura?”

But she had already hung up. Derek sighed, texted her a whole bunch of questions marks, and went about his business. Laura was pretty protective, had been since the fire and Kate, and Derek had to admit that the more primal parts of him enjoyed having his alpha and big sister vet potential relationships. She’d spared him Jennifer the Dark Druid, and Braeden leaving Derek had been a perfectly normal kind of breakup, something Derek’s therapist had actually counted as a step in the right direction. They had met at the Witcher, one time Braeden was in town tracking a nogitsune. Their relationship lasted the five months it took Braeden to identify Kira and her mother – who taught history at the college – as kitsunes indeed, but not the dark trickster she was looking for, and when she’d gone back to her wandering, mercenary ways once more, they had amicably split. As good as their chemistry had been, Derek had no desire to go back to the life of violence and hunting that Laura and him had lived right after the fire.

 

The following day, Derek picked Laura up late at night at the airport. There weren’t many people on the flight, a few parents of foreign college kids arriving for a visit, a couple professors and grad students coming back from conferences, and, Laura, still in her lawyer outfit: charcoal suit, white button shirt, stiletto heals, and pearls on her ears. She made a beeline for him and they hugged, him the rugged mountain man and her the elegant professional, an unlikely pair for whomever was looking, but under the smell of too many people, stale airplane air, and the sweat of a long day, she smelled like home and pack in a way that made Derek feel settled and calm. She always traveled light, so Derek grabbed her carry-on and they wasted no time exiting the airport. Once in the Camaro, Derek driving slow and steady on the icy, dark back roads, he finally asked:

“Why the hurry?”

Laura sighed deeply:

“Sorry for the mystery, baby bro, but I had to make sure before I told you, and the last confirmation I needed came right before I took off.”

It wasn’t Laura’s style to make apologies, let alone provide such a carefully crafted one, and Derek was starting to have a bad feeling.

“What is it, Lore? Will I be digging a grave on the sugar bush property tomorrow?”

“Oh my God, Der, no, why would you say that!”

“You flew here under 24 hours!”

Laura pinched the bridge of her nose and blew air sharply out of her mouth, which was something she did to center herself. It made her sound like a horse, and though Derek thought about it every time, he had carefully never mentioned it. The funny noise, helped with a reassuring squeeze on his arm, broke the tension in the car. Derek had to focus for a moment at a tricky intersection, but once they were back on a boring stretch of road, Laura said:

“When you mentioned the kanima, it did raise a flag. You know I keep tabs on Beacon Hills, and they had a case of it a few years back, a couple months or maybe half a year after Peter vanished.”

This time, it’s Derek who reached out to squeeze Laura’s shoulder. Peter’s disappearance, them not knowing if he was alive or dead, was a burden to both of them, but carried more heavily by Laura, who considered not being able to wake him up, not having felt him waking up, her failure as an alpha.

“So I reached out to some contacts, talked to some West Coast alphas,” Laura continued. “Now, kanimas are rare, but kanima debacles that somehow end up involving teenagers? Only one in recent history.”

“Stiles is from Beacon Hills.”

“Yep. And he’s part of True Alpha McCall’s pack, who now owns the former Hale Pack territory.”

“Fuck. A True Alpha?”

“Yep. These kids have seen some shit. I had to worm it out of her, but Satomi trained McCall herself apparently, who’s a bit & run case and was self-taught before Deaton caught on to what was going on.”

“Christ. How much is ‘some shit’?”

“Well, Satomi came onboard after the kanima, and she mentioned a couple ghouls, a wendigo, some pixies…”

“I had pixies on the sugar bush last year, and we fought that vampire the year before.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t 16 year-old, brand new werewolves.”

“True.”

They drove in silence for a while. By the time they got to Derek’s, it was past 1am, and Laura had told him all she knew, which wasn’t that much. She was out like a light on the sleeper couch as soon as Derek laid a blanket on top of her, but sleep evaded Derek. Could have Stiles known who he was since day one? Was he being tricked again? And to what effect? Neither Derek nor Laura had any claim on the Beacon Hills territory anymore, nor did they want to go back.

Once sleep came, Derek dreamed of Kate.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies - here's the chapter of the week! Conflict, revelations, oh my! Enjoy :)

Following a night of uneasy sleep, Derek woke up late to a note from Laura saying she was out running. Considering she had not brought anything else than her heels, which were still cleanly put to the side of the entrance door, Derek groaned: if the neighbors caught sight of her, he would have to pretend he was dog-sitting again. He knew she itched to patrol the territory, but last time she had given the couple down the road the fright of their lives as they had eaten breakfast on their porch. At least it was winter now – while there wasn’t as much vegetation to hide her, there were also less health-conscious neighbors out jogging early in the morning.

Still bleary-eyed, Derek went through his shower and, padding to the kitchen in his underwear, got to wrestling his coffee maker. He was much more of a tea person himself, but he knew Laura would want a cup when she came back from her run. By the time the grinder was done grinding, and the percolator was noisily percolating, Derek was sipping tea, mug in one hand and rummaging in the fridge for food with the other.

A shout wrenched the air, coming from the barn below, louder even than the coffee machine. Derek threw himself out the door, pausing only at the balcony when the scene below hit him.

Stiles, a log tucked under one arm, was throwing a second piece of wood at Laura, who was in her wolf form, eyes blazing red.

“Stiles!” yelled Derek.

“Derek, don’t move, I’ve got it!”

Without even glancing at him, Stiles chucked his remaining log at Laura and, in the same movement, used his other hand to grab something in his pocket and throw it. Laura nimbly jumped to the side to avoid the log… placing herself smack in the middle of a ring of mountain ash. With a snap of both Stiles’ fingers and magic, the circle came live, and Laura snarled as she hit the barrier trying to step back.

“Derek, you ok?”

Stiles finally glanced up and his scent immediately went bright with arousal, and Derek not only realized that he was still almost naked, but also that it would not be conducive to hiding his reaction to Stiles’ smell much longer.

“Stiles, this is my sister, I’ll be back in a sec,” is all he managed before hastily retreating to the cabin in search of some clothing – for both himself and Laura.

When he ran back out a minute later, vaulting over the rail and landing in the barn, Laura was human again and giving Stiles a noogie, his neck trapped under her armpit, which had the unfortunate effect of pressing his face to her bare breasts, and Stiles was yelling, more or less intelligibly, for her to let him out. Derek was mortified. His alpha had zero shame.

“Laura, stop assaulting him.”

“Ow, Derek, but he attacked me!” she said, but she must have loosened her grip, for Stiles, quite red in the face, snuck out from under her arm and vehemently protested: “There was an alpha werewolf I don’t know prowling the grounds! What am I supposed to do, let Derek be breakfast?”

“You realize Derek can hold his own, and that you’re human, right?” asked Laura, sounding condescending as she put on the sweats Derek threw her.

Stiles took the bait, hook and sinker, and drew himself to his full height, his scent suddenly sharp with outrage:

“You realize this puny human had you trapped? And believe me, you wouldn’t have broken that circle.”

Laura squinted and, without warning, made to attack Stiles. Derek himself was fooled, but before he could stand between them, Stiles had neatly sidestepped Laura’s clawless hands and kicked her in the shoulder, adding to her natural momentum so that she almost went sprawling on the ground. Catching herself, she turned round for another attack, and Stiles was waiting for her, legs bent, arms in a position where his raised fists were ready to protect either his face or midriff.

“What’s this,” he asked, “a trial by combat? Am I to prove I’m worthy of hanging out with your brother?”

Laura crouched low, stalking Stiles in a slow circle. Unperturbed, he followed her with his eyes and some minute shuffling of his feet.

“There’s quite more you want to do with him than hang out, isn’t there?”

Stiles glanced at Derek but his gaze was back on Laura fast enough to parry her lunge – she had hoped to distract him, but his heartbeat was steady and his focus on her as he answered with a kick, a punch, and a sardonic smile.

“Quite more, indeed, if he is so inclined.”

Laura growled has she blocked his hits, before jumping back out of reach.

“Then, as Alpha of the Hale Pack…”

Derek tried to interject: “Laura!” but she continued: “… this is a trial for my blessing to fuck my beta.”

Stiles didn’t even stumble, instead chuckling:

“What, you think you can embarrass me? Hell yeah, I want to fuck Derek. He could also fuck me, I’m not particular. I also had plans along the lines of undressing him, caressing him, sucking his dick, his balls, his asshole… I could keep going. But you know what, Alpha Hale, I’d rather you agreed to our dating, ‘cause I also want to geek out about old lycan texts with Derek, going on dates to the restaurant or the movies, and hang out right here, making maple syrup.”

At this point, one could have cooked an egg on Derek’s cheeks, and he could spot a flicker of admiration on Laura’s face, but before she gets a word in, Stiles added:

“Also, it’s his decision, not yours, and if you’re the kind of alpha to abuse your control, then I might get serious about this fight.”

Stiles’ heartbeat was still steady, his resolve like steel, and it was Derek’s own heart that tripped all over itself, in a way that Laura didn’t fail to notice. She wolf-whistled and abandoned all pretense of fighting, walking instead to Derek to grab the plaid shirt he was still gripping, and put it on.

“Well, Stiles, nice to meet you.”


	13. Chapter 13

Once everybody was properly and fully dressed, and the evaporator was going, they sat in the barn with cups of warm beverages: coffee for Laura, fresh cup of tea for Stiles, and a second steep for Derek.

“So, Stiles, Satomi was even more tight-lipped than usual when I called about you. Tell me more.”

Stiles shrugged, long fingers wrapped around his mug:

“There isn’t much to say… I was a dumb teenager, dragged my best friend in the woods, he got bit by a feral alpha, the rest is history.”

“A feral alpha?” prompted Laura.

Stiles looked guilty, glancing at Derek before answering:

“Your uncle Peter… he woke up, but he wasn’t quite right in the head. But instead of seeking you know, mental health help, he managed to kill an alpha, then started biting some kids. Soon enough we had the Argents on our hands, on top of Scott having to figure out the whole werewolf thing while resisting Peter…”

Derek, his heart in a vice, could only stutter:

“You… You knew… Who I… Who I was, this whole time?”

Stiles looked at him, heartbeat aflutter, eyes pleading:

“That first day, when I showed up – I wanted to introduce myself, check if you were the same Derek Hale I suspected you were.”

Laura growled, low, and Stiles hurriedly added:

“But you thought I was some stupid college kid there for a job and, well, I couldn’t tell if you were a werewolf or not that first time! By the time… By the time I knew for sure you were Derek Hale from Beacon Hills, I… I didn’t know how to tell you. And I liked it anyway!”

“Liked what, the job?!” snorted Laura, incredulous.

Stiles smiled, blindingly happy, and said:

“I do. I like the smell of the boiling sap, the first step into the warm barn after working outside, the minutia of making maple candy… I need the money, and I liked the job, and I quite liked the owner too.”

Stiles’ eyes were twinkling now, creased at the corner, and Derek found himself heating up again as they stared into each other’s eyes, but before he could respond, Laura snapped her fingers in their line of sight and said, amused:

“Back on track, lovebirds. What happened to Peter?”

Derek felt ashamed that Stiles would be able to distract him so thoroughly when such a serious topic was at hand. Stiles sighed, all joy gone from his features and scent as he set his mug down and rubbed his face with a weary hand.

“Things came to a crash. Scott was resisting Peter’s pull so Peter came to us. We got very lucky though. When he found us we were at Scott’s job, Dr. Deaton’s vet clinic, where I had caged Scott, and my Dad was on patrol and able to answer my distress call with not just a full clip in his service gun, but also a taser.”

“Peter? He’s…” Laura chocked up, unable to finish the sentence.

“He was feral. His alpha form was… not a wolf. My Dad took him down long enough for Deaton to arrive and make it permanent. I… I don’t regret it, he was dangerous, had killed people and turned other kids before he got to Scott, but I am sorry we could not give him a proper pack burial.”

“I… why?” wondered Derek aloud.

“Well, Deaton though it safer to burn him. He remembered Peter had an interest in necromancy before the fire.”

They were silent for a while, sipping their lukewarm beverages, Stiles’ leg bouncing up and down nervously.

“You mentioned the Argents?” eventually prompted Laura.

Stiles sighed, deeply:

“Yeah. They heard about the killings, and moved to Beacon Hills. At that point there were a few newly minted werewolves, Scott included, suddenly alpha-less and hanging about the town. At first it was just Chris, Victoria, and Allison, their daughter. That could have worked out: Allison and Scott fell in love, like something straight out of a Shakespeare meets Supernatural fanfic, but then we got a visit from Gerard and Kate, and shit hit the fan again. Turns out they were trying to create a kanima, and thought the pool of available omegas in Beacon was the perfect experimenting ground. They had a captive alpha they forced to bite people. By the time Jackson turned kanima, we had six corpses on our hands, people they had turned, then killed when they became werewolves, or people who died from the bite.”

Stiles paused for a swallow of tea, and continued:

“I’ll spare you some details, but in the end Scott’s incredible heart won the day: he became True Alpha to free himself from a mountain ash circle and go save Allison, who was trying to stop her aunt, and then we all got to see Lydia save Jackson with her love. Gerard had gotten himself the bite from his poor, captive alpha, trying to cure his cancer, but all it got him was a serious rage issue. He killed the alpha for the power, then bit Victoria, and by the time we got to the scene, Kate was about to shoot Allison for trying to stop Victoria from committing suicide. I shot first. Can’t say I regret it much.”

Stiles glanced at Derek, whose heart seized, between relief at knowing Kate was dead, and fright that Stiles knew, somehow… Stiles nodded, once, and confirmed:

“Kate liked to bragged a bit too much when she thought she was in control.”

“I… Stiles…” Derek’s voice wavered.

“She’s ashes now.”

“Good. Bitch deserved it,” said Laura, vicious satisfaction in her tone.

“Anyway, that’s about the most of it. Satomi told you the rest – she trained Scott, who took Jackson and some of the surviving new werewolves as betas. It’s a motley crew, but it works, we’ve only had minor stuff since.”

“And the rest of the Argents?” pushed Laura.

“Still in California. Victoria had to do some serious work on herself, but she came through. She’s in Satomi’s pack now. Chris and her moved closer to Satomi, but Allison stayed. Scott and her are getting married soon, once Scott graduates from undergrad and goes on to vet school.”

They were silent for a moment, mulling on the staggering amount of news Stiles had just delivered.

“What about you?” eventually asked Derek, softly. “Why are you here, in Vermont?”

Stiles shrugged:

“I needed a break. I’m the only human in Scott’s pack at this point. I feel… a bit useless at times. Dad thought it’d be good for me to spend a few years far away. I thought he deserved a break too, from his hyperactive kid and from supernatural drama.”

Laura and Derek exchanged a look. Derek did not like how matter of fact Stiles was in his self-criticizing. He also doubted his pack and father saw the distance as a way to get a break from Stiles.

“I’m glad you are here. I’m lucky you came to the sugar bush.”

Stiles grimaced:

“Even tough I lied about knowing who you were?”

Derek shrugged:

“I’m salty about it, as you’d say, but I’m still glad.”

Stiles smiled, a mix of emotions on his face, in his scent, in his tone, relieved, nervous and shy, as he said:

“So you still want to have our… conversation?”

“I, err, yes…”

They both glanced at Laura, who, able to take a hint for once, got up and loudly announced she needed the ladies’ room before winking dramatically and sauntering her way up to the cabin. How she could swagger up the steep ladder-like stairs was beyond Derek, but he was grateful for her swift exit, though he suspected she might be standing behind the door, ears pricked.

“Let’s walk,” offered Derek, and Stiles, pointing his chin towards the cabin, raised a questioning eyebrow that Derek answered with a nod.

Stiles slipped his coat on, and they walked out the barn, up the hill where the maple trees were starting to bud, and the melting snow formed rivulets that cascaded down to the real stream. They discussed the taps needing to be pulled out, cleaned, and put into storage for next year, and how the maple wine brewing was going, and other inconsequential things until they were quite alone on top of the hill, watching the landscape. The barn tucked at the bottom, and the road beyond snaking past small houses, and a couple hobby farms, before reaching the main road.

“So…” started Stiles, before being unable to keep going.

“So you want to fuck me? Or have me fuck you, you’re not particular?” teased Derek.

Stiles chuckled and shook his head:

“I like to make you blush, sue me. I also said I wanted to date you.”

“Even though… Even though you know about…”

Derek breathed, deep, swallowed and finally said: “Even though you know about Kate.”

Stiles looked at him and frowned:

“Dude, she wasn’t your fault, and your were honest about your baggage. Why would it bother me? You realize I come with my own set of issues, right? We’ll just have to figure it out.”

“And if we can’t figure it out?”

“Then I sure hope we can be friends. Stilinskis don’t love many people, but when they do, they love for life, whatever shape it takes.”

Stiles turned to Derek then, all pretense of being absorbed in the landscape abandoned, caught Derek’s gaze, and held it.

“I like you Derek, and it’s not going away anytime soon.”

There was nothing but earnest, brilliant affection in Stiles voice, scent, and eyes, and Derek’s heart gave a squeeze. He felt the heat in his cheeks spread to his throat and ears, and found himself unable to formulate an answer.

“Shit, Stiles, come here,” Derek eventually mumbled and, pulling the man to himself, proceeded to kiss him, deep, unhurried, and hopefully full of the feelings that were choking him up.

Stiles was responsive and hummed into the kiss, grabbing Derek back, giving as good as he got. They snogged for a while, and it felt easy, to be there kissing Stiles, in the midst of the maple trees. When they next took a break, Derek remarked:

“With the maple season is almost over, will you be looking for another part-time job?”

“Already trying to get rid of me?” joked Stiles.

“Trying to gauge how much free time you’ll have.”

Stiles passed his hands in Derek’s hair, scratching his scalp slightly, tracing the contours of his skull and face.

“I’m not sure. What do you do when it’s not maple season anyway?”

Derek smiles:

“I’m a book editor. Mostly fiction. And I go around to my neighbors’ fruit trees and abandoned orchards, pick fruit, and make jams.”

“Please tell me you have reading glasses. It would go so well with the rugged hipster look you have going already.”

“Stiles, I’m a werewolf, I won’t ever need glasses.”

“Darn. Will you need an assistant for jam-making, though?”

Derek smiled:  
“Only if you take a share of the sales rather than be my employee again.”

“Deal, partner.”

Stiles presented his hand to shake and Derek laughed, happy.

“Partner,” he said, taking Stiles’ hand and kissing its top, thinking that he rather liked it, and that in time they’d grow into its meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it folks!   
> I wanted to try my hand at something were not much happened, focused on the budding relationship, rather than an action-packed fic.   
> Let me know how I fared! I had originally planned for some steamier times in there too, but I rather like how this chapter ended, so unless you're desperate for it, and for more domestic times at the sugar shack, I think it's a good end to the story.   
> Thanks to everybody who commented! You made me keep a steady posting rhythm, and encouraged me to keep writing this.


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